


two paces and turn

by badwrites



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: (mostly), Anal Sex, Blood, Death, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gangbang, Gun Kink, Gun Violence, Inappropriate Humor, Indifferent Victim, M/M, Multi, Other, Painful Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tentacles, Xeno, rape/revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:07:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21928708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwrites/pseuds/badwrites
Summary: The Mandalorian doesn't do his due diligence with a bounty.He ends up fine.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Other(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Others
Comments: 19
Kudos: 206





	two paces and turn

**Author's Note:**

> (Written during S1 before the name reveal. Sorry, Din, prepare to be dehumanized even more.)

This isn't good.

A single mistake wouldn't lead him to a situation like this, no. It's layer over layer of bad decision-making mixed with a characterization of his target(s) with a side of caution thrown to the wind that really opens up the holes for this to happen.

His target's goons outnumber him nine to one, and are much better equipped than he imagined they would be. The target is extravagantly wealthy, of course, so he expected some flashy munitions. These? Actually good. The fact that her cronies all have shining, new EF-534 blaster carbines currently aimed at him reflects some additional consulting and procuring from someone who knows what they're doing.

One of them — an especially scraggly Balosar — has fished the blade out of his boot. Disheartened, he watches it get carelessly tossed toward the same corner as his pulse rifle, grenades, bracers and blaster. One more time, the Mandalorian tries to rear up from his prone position from the floor. Can't lift his chest more than a few inches off the ground before the boot on his back slams him back down, grunting as he feels his chest bounce off of the inner lining of his cuirass. The many hands wrapped around his arms and legs double down, pin him more insistently to the tiling.

So. Plan B doesn't apply anymore. The Mandalorian tries to mentally go through his go-to disaster flowchart, trying to cull the panic beginning to well. The hands are continuing to pat him down, sliding across the contours of his armor and into the edges of pockets and sleeves.

The Devaronian at his side straightens up, hands resting on his back. He announces to the room, "I think we've disarmed him!"

"Excellent," a new voice above him purrs. He already knows who it is before he tries to crane his head to look at her.

As expected, the matriarch of the Yitsest trade family is looking down at him. The bounty puck wrenched from his satchel is now resting in her bejeweled and fuzzy open palm, her rotating holographic portrait echoing her haughty raised nose and warily flattened ears. Under it, text: Prita Yitsest. Cathar. Evet II. 7,500 credits.

The Mandalorian lets his neck relax, head dropping down back to the floor.

"O'ghky Trevak really had the stones to send a Bounty Hunters' Guild member after me? After all our family did for him? That slug!" There's a lilt in her tone that's both triumphant and indignant. It's extravagant and forced, like her, and clearly an act for her audience of employees.

Yitsest's high-heeled paw takes a step into the periphery of his vision. He doesn't look up at her as she kneels by him, but he does when her gold-plated claws embrace the sides of his helmet and force him to. She peers at him, delighted. "And a Mandalorian, no less!" There's a suspicious narrowing of her eyes when she carefully adds, "How surprisingly simple it was for my men to disarm you."

His head is released without event, then the matriarch straightens back up. "I think it's about time I sent Trevak and his friends a nice video, don't you all?" There's a moment of hesitation as her people consider whether the question is rhetorical, then echo their murmurs of agreement. She's pleased with it; laughs, and claps her hands. "Our lovely guest will be the star."

Someone's throat clears. A Mikkian's sing-song dialect chimes in, with some hesitation. "How would you like the Mandalorian to be executed, Mdme. Yitsest?"

The matriarch doesn't respond immediately. There's a quiet tension in the room, and he listens to the click-clack of her heels pace. Eventually concludes, "I'll have to think about that. But first... how about you all have a little fun, hmm?"

Confused silence.

"Break him?" she suggests.

The Mandalorian gets it. If that's her plan, it means he gets time. A distraction. Close contact. Fine.

"Bones?" someone else asks, for clarification. This crew is pretty naïve, he thinks.

She sighs, exasperated. "Use him, sexually. Do I need to draw a diagram?"

A room full of _ohhh_ s, a few awkward laughs. Finally.

One meek voice speaks up. "Apologies, Mdme. I do not think I can take part." It's the Sullustan, her small hands leaving his elbow — unfortunately immediately being replaced by the grip of one of the Harch's extra pincers. Were they supposed to have six hands? Or was it eight?

"It's not a problem," Yitsest tells her. "I thought you might object, Dia. See you next week." How considerate.

Paces, then the blast door hissing open and then closed. One down.

"Anybody else have any qualms with being a film star?" More laughs, and a few 'no's and a 'nuh-uh'. "Very well. Move him to the work table."

Even with all his heavy beskar gear on, the Mandalorian lifted off the ground like a plank. He tries to wrench his arms out of their grips, kick his legs out; they're holding him so tight that all that gets him is a firm punch to his vulnerable midsection — forcing all the air out of him as a grunt — and someone ordering him to, "stay the fuck still, boxhead."

The Mandalorian is dropped uncerimoniously on the rolling metal slab in the center of the room, and a pair of shackles are immediately slapped onto his wrists. The matriarch's guards undo his pauldrons and throw them beside. His shoulders still strain and ache as they forcefully lift his arms over his head and secure them to the top of the table, but at least they're not in danger of being dislocated by his own armor.

They're not tying his lower body down. Good. That means he can —

"Take off your rifles, please. Having those within reach of a Mandalorian is begging for disaster."

— damn it. They're immediately pulled off of everyone's back and handed to the lone droid there, who carries them in its arms to clumsily clatter them in a pile at the bar. In this position, lying belly-side down on the slab, The Mandalorian stuck either looking down on grey panelling or looking at her directly. She's now seated on a silky red divan, watching these proceedings with keen interest and her head propped in her hand. Pinched between the fingers of the other: A holodisc, presumably where this will all end up on.

She curls his fingers toward him. No, past him. Then, the hands descend yet again.

When they start pulling at his armor the Mandalorian doesn't let himself flinch, doesn't let himself seize up in discomfort. Not when sharp fingernails graze his skin to pull the long sleeves of his gloves starting at just below his bicep, peeling them slowly all the way down to his fingers and then fully off his fingertips. Not when he can feel his bare skin suddenly exposed to the air of the room, and feels the cold pierce his flesh and raise the hair on his arm. Not when they unlatch each piece of his beskar from him, leaving him more and more aware of his vulnerability at the sound of each clanging to the floor.

The moment where he _can't_ stop himself from immediately kicking his legs out again and thrashing his body side-to-side is when somebody's warm, slippery fingers begin to slide up the back of his neck and underneath the protective mesh underneath his helmet. The panic is rearing up. If he survives this but is stripped of his helmet — no, he'd rather end up dead.

There's some commotion as they spread out to grab him once again, really pulling him hard against his bindings, and he gets a few eye-watering punches to his sides as a reward. The hands resume their journey upward. The Mandalorian gasps, frantically tries to shake his head side to side. The _no!_ that comes from under his helmet is a sincere and unabashed plead.

"Stop!"

The hands pause where they are on his skin. He holds his breath.

"Are you daft?" Yitsest looks infinitely displeased, fuzzy brow furrowed. She shakes her index finger at her people. "Don't you even think about pulling that helmet."

There's an unexpected curl of gratitude in his chest at that, of all things.

The helmet-snatcher's voice echoes above his ears in confused protest. The Devaronian. Of course it was. "But Mdme. Yitsest, don't we —?"

The matriarch presses her lips firmly and crosses her arms across her chest, leaning back on her lounger. "I absolutely do not want this to be mistaken as some... neo-Imperial attack on the peoples of the Mandalore. Or any other culture exploited by the Empire, for that matter!"

"Yes Mdme.," says the Devaronian. When his fingers retract, the wave of relief spreading across his own body is palpable.

"We're not bigots," says the matriarch to the room, in faux-enlightenment. There's an obedient chorus of affirmatives.

"Just rapists," the Mandalorian finds himself quipping. He doesn't regret it, not even when someone immediately pinches his still-clothed thigh with their heavy fingers so hard he hisses.

Yitsest throws her head back to laugh, then looks at him with hooded eyes. She lazily waves. "You heard the man. Go on."

Appropriately disciplined, her thugs really put speed in stripping him. His boots are pulled off and tossed unceremoniously, as are his socks. The cold on his toes are unpleasant, too vulnerable. Feels himself gritting his teeth under his helmet when someone presses a claw into the sole of his right foot so deep it feels like it's piercing flesh. No, it definitely did. He can feel it sting, then drip wetly off of the ball of his foot to the floor.

They don't really figure out how to simply unclasp his belt and harness. The Houk there — huge and dull, like most of them — just grabs the back of it, pulls and shakes it violently. The leather and steel cutting into his hips and ribcage by the brute's strength is agonizing, makes him feel like his torso is going to rip under the tension of it. It's to his relief that it's neither himself nor the band that snaps, but the buckles giving way as the big man tears it off him. When someone reaches for the clasp of his cloak around his neck, it's to his relief that it's someone who isn't the Houk — they delicately undo the clasp to tactfully remove it.

Some hands toy with the edge of his shirt, pulling the hem of it out of his pants, brushing hands on the newly revealed strip of bare skin. They wouldn't be able to pull his vest and shirt up without undoing his bindings, let alone get them over his helmet.

"This looks pretty reinforced. Anyone got a laser cutter?"

The Mandalorian imagines it, and shudders at the perceived pain. Them burning through his clothes, the skin and muscle of his back, the surface of his ribs.

The Houk grunts, and his two massive hands take grips at his sides. The Mandalorian braces for the worst. Then, the clothing of his torso is uneventfully pushed up around and under him to right underneath his armpits. The big bundle of clothes immobilizing his shoulders even more isn't comfortable, and neither is the suddenly cool air on his back nor the feeling of the cold table against his bare navel and nipples. Still, it's better than being burned or having them ripped off of him again.

"Can we divvy up the beskar after we're done, Mdme. Yitsest?" The Mikkian's voice is tentative. He wants to just roll away from her, get away from her soft fingers running down his back.

"Yes, yes, of course." Yitsest sounds bored, impatient. So is he, in a rip-off-the-bandage way. "Fuck him already."

Yes, he thinks. Get it over and done with.

Hands wrap themselves in the hem of his trousers, and in a blink of an eye rip them off of his legs entirely. He rests his head to the side, closes his eyes. Fingers and claws hook at the waistband of his compression shorts and pull them off of his hips. Someone else has to prop his hips up to let their buddies pull it off him, because he sure as hell isn't raising them for them to strip him naked.

Now? The Mandalorian is completely exposed, vulnerable skin open to the threat of violence. His soft cock is pressed uncomfortably down underneath his hips, chilled by the cold table. There's an uncomfortable flit in his stomach when he can feel a thick finger stroke across its exposed tip in-between his thighs over his balls. Doesn't like hands kneading at the soft flesh of his ass, definitely doesn't like when someone playfully tugs at the hair at the junction between his pubes and his thighs.

"Fuzzy, for a human. I like that."

Snickering. Whatever. If he ever feels humiliation, something like this wouldn't cause it. Not even the last time, he tells himself.

One of the hands on his asscheeks lift (good). Then, is replaced with someone's mouth (not great), and — their hard bite, grinding their blunted molars into the even fat and muscle of it so hard he can't help but jerk in his bindings, gasp as he thinks he feels something pop under it. Can't tell if it's bleeding or just a deep hematoma, when they lift off and stand back.

Pain is a familiar companion. The Mandalorian uses it as an anchor. A reminder that if he doesn't do something, there's no doubt that he's going to die after they're all done, if not mid-way. There's shuffling, behind him.

He opens his eyes. It's hard to see at this angle, has to painfully crane his head and wrench a shoulder to catch glimpses behind him. Mostly feet.

They're setting up in a queue to fuck him, apparently going for a more organized approach than just shoving inside him wherever they can. The Devaronian is first up, undoing his buttons to pull out his already mostly-hard, angry red and bumpy cock. It's probably the closest thing to human genitalia that he's going to be subjected to during this.

He ignores the natural apprehension (and _clench_ ) that his body responds with to the sight, and looks at the rest of the line.

The rifles are next to the boss. His own armaments are on the other side of the hall.

But there's something else here, on someone. Well, two, technically. The droid obviously has auto-equipped hand-cannons (and the Mandalorian isn't thrilled that he's in line, at spot #4), but it would be difficult to use them without mobility and control of his own hands. No, it's lucky position #6 — a very quiet, nervous-looking Gotal — who has a holster at his hip. Loaded. If he was supposed to ditch his blaster, nobody noticed so far.

Yes. He's going to get out of here. Just has to will himself some patience.

The man's thumbs spread his cheeks, the torn one stretching painfully with the motion, and the Mandalorian clenches an immobilized fist when he feels an abnormal amount of saliva hit his asshole. A wet thumb — fingernail not nearly trimmed enough — runs over his opening, dips teasingly in it.

Cover? The bar, of course. That ostentatious reinforced marble can absorb a bullet or two. Does help that all the rifles are on there, too.

There's the sting of the Devaronian's nail stabbing inside of him, sharp and ruthless, followed by the rest of his thumb. He tries to regulate his own breath as he experimentally wiggles it inside of him, then pulls it out. An index finger is then pressed against his entrance, slid in with what feels like a drag of his own guts.

He's tight, can't get himself to relax to make this less painful. It feels nearly impossible for the Devaronian to get a second finger in, as if he has to nearly nick him with his nail to get him to open up. He grits his teeth as his assailant manages to use brute force to do it, wiggles them in insistently and tries to fuck him with his fingers in tiny little motions.

He's too dry. No way he can do this with just spit, even if blood might now be in the mix. The Devaronian manages to figure it out when he drags his fingers out of him, presses the crested head of his nubbed cock to the Mandalorian's barely-opened asshole to find it resistant to his push.

"This is like putting my dick in the sands of Jakku. Does anyone have any — oh, thanks."

There's a wet squelch of lubricant being poured from a bottle, and more wet noises as the Devaronian works it over himself. Then, it's spurted over him — the warm oil might be psychologically distressing but physically soothing as it drips over his stinging ass down over his balls, to the table underneath him.

The two fingers re-enter him with barely any effort, the only acute pain when his nails catch the wrong angle on his walls as he scissors him open. Otherwise, it's just a not wholly unfamiliar stretch and the ache as he feels himself plied open and readied for when the Devaronian pulls his fingers out and replaces them with the head of his cock. Successfully, this time — he glides in, inch by inch, and the Mandalorian has to clench his teeth to stand the unpleasant ache of being speared open so deeply. He feels himself wrapping around the bumped texture of his cock, clenching at each catch.

It doesn't take long for him to bottom out, hips pressed into his cheeks. He rocks experimentally into him. The Mandalorian wants to groan.

"Stars, you're so tight," pants the Devaronian.

"Stars, you're so dead," says the Mandalorian, trying to sound as unaffected as he can. Someone laughs. The Devaronian punches the side of his helmet in return.

They both grunt; the Devaronian from his bare knuckles hitting beskar, the Mandalorian from the sudden ringing in his ears of his helmet banging around his own head. Makes him feel dizzy, disoriented; gasps painfully, loudly, can't hold it in when the infuriated man digs his fingernails in his hips and begins to really hammer him.

Now it hurts; split open on his cock, still feeling too tight even with the wet squelch of lubricant lining him, leaking out of him at each withdrawal of his head to his entrance and the slap of his balls on his perenium. Each thrust slides him forward, then back, on the slab.

He tries to tune out. Like any time The Mandalorian has been tortured he succeeds, but not entirely. Staring at the tile floor isn't enough to make him not notice the Devaronian hoist a boot on the table to fuck him deeper, to not notice him mark his lower back with deep gouges of his nails. He can't ignore that feeling of disgust when he begins to jitter his hips and moan to unload inside him, shaking off the rest of his cum on the curve of his ass.

The Mandalorian opens his eyes, which he didn't notice he had closed. It's not like he can see outside his helmet, anyway; apparently he's fogged it all up.

The Devaronian steps away. #2 takes his place. Must be the Harch's turn.

Those echoes of pain, the waves from his lower body to the pangs from exposed sections of cut flesh, are becoming more tolerable. Makes him catch those strange clicks, a weird low — whistle? Woosh?

Low murmurs. "Wait. What are you _doing?_ " someone asks, voice tight with disgust.

Uh-oh.

"The same as you," the Harch clicks back, defensive.

"Doesn't look like it!"

"Crinking spiders," someone else chimes in.

"Don't call me that!" Something wet splashes on the Mandalorian's leg. He grimaces. "I'm almost done."

A moment, as he tries his hardest to see what the hell is happening back there. No success.

Then, it emits a low sigh. An echoing sentiment of 'ew's and a single 'huh' to whatever just happened.

Something touches him. Its hands; this time, coated in something wet and bizzarely tacky. He can feel its hairy forearm segments tickle his skin as it hurriedly spreads his rim with its pincers to shove the round blobs of whatever substance inside of him.

He's 99% sure they're not eggs, considering how they burst with little resistance when his immediate reaction is to clench around them when the Harch inserts the first one. Whatever it is — it's a bit too sticky, a bit too warm, way too much of it. As if someone unloaded a shot of lube into him; feels even worse when the Harch tries to really squirm its other set of of pincers inside him and the same thing happens — wet, pouring from him, onto his thighs, onto and off the table.

Humiliation is failing a bounty. Humiliation is breaking a promise. Disgust is not dishonor.

The Harch clicks in approval, and moves away. #3. The Mikkian steps in.

Someone whistles.

They're not barbed, the appendages that wiggle inside him. Thought he heard a rumor about that — Mikkians as sirens, ripping apart men and women with sharp tendrils. No, they're blunt and even. Small, though, and not very long. Must be dozens of them, squirming nearly-independently under a centimeter wide. Cilia, more than tentacles.

She sighs dreamily, and presses closer to him. They're prehensile, her cilia — she holds still and close as they glide effortlessly through his slicked opening.

The fact that this doesn't hurt, that he can barely feel them, bothers him somehow. He wants her to get off and get off of him. Now.

He tries to clench around her, tries to push back against her. Tries to feign what he thinks what someone who wants to be fucked would do, even if the anatomy might not be compatable with it. The Mikkian moans, grinds herself lazily into him.

"Oh, I suppose Mandalorians do have whores." Yitsest's voice is warm, titillated. He resolves to finish the bounty.

There's a jerk of his own body as the Mikkian strokes cilia across his prostate, then again, then again. When some of her cilia slip messily outside of his hole, they wrap around his hardening dick in-between his legs.

"No," he says, lowly. Only enough for her to hear, if she were paying attention.

The Mikkian doesn't say anything to that, but the cilia release from their grip around him — pull back to the labial lips that spawned them. Her cilia sudderly spasm and curl wildly inside of him. It's not painful, no, but it's not as pleasurable as the prostate-playing as before — this nauseating, parasitic sensation. Seems to be good for her, though; she gasps, and shudders, shortly pulling back and out of him.

Lying there, gasping, waiting for his own arousal to fade. He's still bleeding.

Suddenly, something hard presses against him. Very hard.

No.

He's being stretched out by the droid's extended arm. It's not shaped as its usual robot digits, he can feel it. It's hot, and vibrates gently as it moves through his abused hole. Cylindrical, not separate.

Hand cannon. He's being fucked by a droid's hand-cannon.

"You should shoot him, YT4-DR7." He doesn't know who said that, but at this very second he almost agrees with them.

"That would not be optimal for this purpose," the bot immediately shoots back. It whirs its head side to side, a pantomime of disagreement.

It's so hot the Mandalorian feels like he's burning up inside, thinks he just might be. Can almost imagine the sizzle of the Harch-goop inside of him, even if it's impossible. Unlikely.

It holds it there, tauntingly. The heat from the blaster seems to intensify more and more, every second. Sweat is dripping from the bridge of his nose and his forehead to the front of his helmet.

He's burning, inside-out. His insides are going to cauterize by the heat. He wants to _scream_ —

— but he loudly gasps instead when the bot rips it out of him like a hot knife, feels himself clenching openly at the space where it used to be instead.

It's over. It's over. He unclenches his hands, and tries to steady his heavy breathing, his too-loud grunts of pain.

A heavy step. Another. Another. Two massive hands on his thighs.

#5. The Houk. Forgot about him.

He's still reeling from being gun-fucked by the _droid_ , as if the physical agony wasn't enough, that he can't bother putting up his usual restraint at pain.

He lets himself grunt when he's penetrated by his ridged cock, hilted in a brutal movement. The Houk's second cock is wedged awkwardly between the Mandalorian's cheeks and on his lower back. Would've just had his pelvis split in two if he used both at once.

Still, even with the lubrication he's fairly sure he's bleeding openly by now. Can't tell. It's all pain: The contusions, being fucked over and over. The breaths are wrenched out of him at every thrust. Shakes like a ragdoll.

The Mandalorian closes his eyes and wills himself to be fucked unconscious.

He doesn't get fucked unconscious. He gets fucked into gasping, groaning, shaking as he's used for only minutes but minutes too long. The Houk's grips on his sides are bruising him, too, leaving big marks where his fingers are grasping. They tighten when he roars, and cums inside of The Mandalorian. Outside, too — the second cock tenses, then spews a thick pile of semen on the small of his back.

It's a miracle that the Houk doesn't take anything with him when he pulls out with a groan, just leaving behind his gaping, oozing hole.

He wants to be asleep. He wants this to end. He wants to...

"What, now you get cold feet?!"

He allows himself to open his eyes, crane his head back.

The Gotal is next in line, already shaking his head wildly at the Vratix behind him. The Devaronian is backing the insectoid up, goading him to participate and shaking an angry fist. He slams an open palm at his chest; the Gotal stumbles back on his heels. In range.

No pain. Just now.

He lashes backward with both feet to the Gotal's holster, grabs it between them. Before anyone has time to react he curls his leg, awkwardly feels for the right hold and angle between his toes. Fires.

First pulse bounces off of his beskar helmet, rattles his head. Second pulse sears dangerously close to his fingers. Third pulse cuts through his weak aluminum bindings, makes him yelp at a sting of heat at his wrists.

"Ogbnis! You fool!" Yitsest screams.

His hands raise back to meet his feet, to exchange the blaster, then his feet jerk back to kick the Gotal as hard as he can in the chest.

Then, it's a breeze.

In the race between him and the fleet-footed Mikkian, he wins. Sprints towards the bar and vaults over it, sweeps their EF-534s with a swipe of his arm onto his side. She almost joins him; he catches her, mid-leap, with a pull of the trigger. She lands back on her side, good and dead.

He ducks; comes back up with two of their precious carbines. The Houk, charging at his vantage point with his flaccid cocks still flopping around, falls easily to a spray of high-density plasma to his forehead plate. And some down below, for good measure.

The Mandalorian doesn't bother firing at the backs of those sprinting out the door. Few reasons. Firstly, can't with the fire that the droid is suddenly returning. He has to duck a second time to them, flinches when they burst bottles behind his head.

There's no denying the satisfaction when he takes off arm one. There's a spark as severed wires fly in all directions, and screeching tear as the metal gives to his blaster fire. Same goes with arm two. Then, the central chassis; the dimming of red lights to black.

Quickly, he squeezes fire at the corner. The Harch yelps, then falls to the ground. His own weaponry hangs from each of his pincers.

There's a wary, quiet moment. Booze drips steadily from the shelves of the bar. The hiss of plasma in the walls. Someone's groaning. The persistent sobs of Yitsest, weeping hysterically behind her throne.

Still holding both rifles out, he steps out from his safe vantage point. She makes a startled sound when he slowly steps around her hiding place, as if it weren't completely obvious, and she tries to crawl backward.

"N-no! Don't kill me," she begs. "I can give you money! I'll give you 20,000 credits to let me go, I'll give you anything, I'll give you permanent work with the family — I'm sorry, _please don't!_ "

"I won't," the Mandalorian says flatly, and jabs the butt of a rifle directly at her temple. The matriarch slumps to the ground, unconscious.

For a minute, he trains the guns at the door. Content that nobody's going to barrel through, he drops one of the rifles. Moving around the room to collect his clothes and armor is becoming increasingly difficult, the deep ache and lock in his limbs settling in. He's limping pretty badly by the time he fixes his cloak around his neck. Whatever. Time will heal it just fine.

Now: The Mandalorian holds the holodisc between his thumb and forefinger, and considers it for just a moment. Then, he lets his fingers go. It clatters gently on the ground, then cracks into pieces as he stops his foot once, twice on it.

He scoops Yitsest's unconscious body in his arms. Like this, she seems more like some overdressed elderly woman than a gloating master criminal. Doesn't make the Mandalorian have any more compassion for her. Wanted alive, though. So... well, This is the Way.

At least carbonite makes a long trip go faster.

* * *

"So." O'ghky Trevak leans across the table. "Prita has the best security of anybody I know. Did she give you _any_ trouble at all?"

Behind him, Twi'leks twirl and gyrate around nebulous, ephemeral tendrils.

The Mandalorian looks back at him. He tells him, "Nope."

The heavy weight of 7,500 credits in the box nestled under his arm is a comforting one.

His patron laughs, raises a glass to him. "Wow! You Mandalorians sure are something."

He doesn't drink to that.


End file.
